


green ribbon winner

by heavyliesthecrown



Series: sweater weather [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Holidays, The More The Merrier, Winter, a sprinkle of winter themes, a very jolly netflix romcom christmas movie sequel, divorced parents and the ensuing drama, engaged!bughead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28202166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavyliesthecrown/pseuds/heavyliesthecrown
Summary: On a weekend where everything's supposed to be merry and bright, having them around puts that into jeopardy. If he had it his way, he'd be somewhere else, far, far away. Luckily for him, he isn't in this alone.Or—the magical, transformative power of some very ugly sweaters.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Series: sweater weather [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065965
Comments: 104
Kudos: 132
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	1. december 23rd

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to _red ribbon winner._ I think it could probably be read as a stand alone, and if you’re in this universe for the first time, there is a summary of the events in the first story embedded in this chapter (of sorts, anyway). That said, some of the references and beats do refer back to the first story, so check it out if you wish! Happy holidays, and enjoy!

He’ll be the first to admit that he’s not a good traveler.

He gets cranky a lot. The world is filled with lousy people, and airports, filled with the lousiest of them all. He doesn’t like the idiots who ask, “Do I need to take this out? What about this?” as they pull water bottles and brass knuckles from their bags at security. He doesn’t like being upcharged for snacks in the terminal, it makes him feel like a chump, and he doesn’t like planes or their accoutrements—not the lady he’s seated next to, whose emotional support ferret is looking at him in a funny way, and not the hot recycled air he’s forced to stew in, rife with the particulate matter of other people’s winter diseases.

But at his front door, Jughead shucks his jacket off, and his top layer. Everything’s much better after that. It’s all over, finally, and if it’d ever been about the journey in the first place, it’s only because it’d really been about the destination—to one of the very few people in the world he doesn’t consider completely and utterly lousy.

“Betty!” He sets his bag to the side of the door. It tips over. His abandoned clothing goes in a pile on top. “Betts, I’m home! I’m bending you over something in twenty seconds, so kitchen counter or bed, your cho—”

His fiancée—his lovely, beautiful, fiercely intelligent fiancée—emerges from the bedroom with steely eyes. She is decidedly not trying to sex him, which is how he first realizes there’s a problem. She’s wearing a matching top and cardigan in Pepto-Bismol pink. The stuffy vibes he can work with, they could do a Stepfordian bit, maybe, something with a feather duster and an apron. But she’s wearing jeans. That scares the shit out of him, tells him he’s in for it in a bad way, because the lack of sweatpants on this, her day off, indicates a terrifying, apocalyptic darkness on the horizon.

“Jughead. So nice of you to answer your phone,” she says.

He had not answered his phone. He’s sensing this has somehow exacerbated Armageddon. He’d switched it off before the flight because he knew he’d give himself away somehow, and this was supposed to be a nice, fun, sexy surprise. But now, with this guilty, sort of constipated look on Betty’s face, he wonders if it’s about to be a horrific, nauseating, sexless shitbomb, if a slick guy doused in massage oil and Drakkar Noir is about to trail out of the bathroom saying, “Are you ready for The Chet?” and ruin his marriage before it’s even begun.

“Jug, this is my mother,” Betty says. “She’s decided to surprise us for the holidays. In the flesh.”

Mother Cooper steps out of their bedroom, also in a matching top and cardigan, but in robin’s egg blue. She says, “Hello, Forsythe,” as she gives him a once-over. Then, “That’s an interesting choice of knitwear.”

He’s wearing a sweater with rows and rows of reindeer in the throes of orgasmic pleasure on it. After having announced his desire to experience the same, possibly in the place where they prepare their food, there’s no salvaging this meeting, so Jughead grins winningly and says, “Isn’t it? One of my favorites. Your daughter gave it to me a few Christmases ago.”

He shuts the bedroom door. When he turns to greet his lovely, beautiful, fiercely intelligent fiancée, dipping to kiss away the stern expression on her face, she flicks him on the forehead.

“Ow.”

“That didn’t hurt.”

“It hurt my heart.”

“You not picking up your phone hurt my head. This is a Pompeiian disaster.”

He narrows his eyes. “Hi honey. I’m so happy to see you. It’s really romantic you came home early to seduce me in the humping reindeer sweater that makes me very horny.”

“It does not.”

“No. How dare you. It does, you know it does.”

She glares at him. He glares back, somewhere between turned on and scared. “Whatever. Maybe. It’s not the pressing problem of the moment.”

That’s when Betty deflates like a balloon. Her hands fly to her head, and static from her sweater forces her hair up into two triangular points. It has the effect of making her look incredibly feline. He’s heard of this phenomenon, owners and their pets morphing into one face.

“Jug.” She gives a tiny, petulant stomp that he finds weirdly adorable. “My mother is here. She’s present. In our home.”

“I know. I think that introduction went well, actually. All things considered. Thoughts?”

“She wants to stay present in our home until after Christmas.”

“I figured. Her suitcase is massive.”

“She wanted something that could double as a raft during her travels if necessary.” Betty begins pacing, catastrophizing. “We’ll have to cancel the ugly sweater party.”

“Why?”

“She’ll think I’m making fun of her signature style and take offense.”

“Isn’t her signature style more these matchy-matchy numbers you have on?”

“It all falls under knitwear.”

“And she has dominion over that whole umbrella?” Betty keeps on pacing. Jughead thinks. “Okay, well, how about we just tell everyone to dress normally? It’s not what you were hoping for, I know, but at least it won't be a total wash. You’ll still get your dinner this way.”

“Okay.” She nods. “Yeah, okay. That could work.”

“Was that Vesuvius or is that yet to come?”

“The magma’s only just bubbling. She saw the semi-dirty clothes chair.”

“Everyone has that chair.”

Betty swats his shoulder. “She knows we have sex now.”

“Was she seriously unaware before?”

“You are not going to want to marry me after this.”

“Hey. Look at me a sec.” He puts a hand on her forearm and waits for her eyes to meet his. “I’ll always want to marry you.”

“Yeah? I’m checking in again after Christmas.”

“Betty,” he says, leveling with her, “your mom is one woman, and it’s one weekend. What do you really think is going to happen?”

“A lot. Her tongue is very sharp.”

“So’s mine.”

“She’s made people cry with just her words before. Hers is sharper.”

“Wow. That hurts, kind of. You know how proud I am of my tongue.”

“Jug, be serious please.”

“I’m being serious. If you thought that was an innuendo then the sweater affects you even more than I thought.” He places his hands on her shoulders and slowly rubs up and down her arms. “Look, your mom hasn’t had face-time with me yet. That’s got to be exciting for her. She’ll spend a couple days picking me apart, tell you she’s wildly disappointed my generational suffix doesn’t come with an ancestral summer home you’ll inherit once you’ve offed me with strychnine—”

“I’d go cyanide, but okay.”

“Then she’ll leave. We won’t even have time to get to you.”

Betty exhales choppily, and after a moment, wraps her arms tightly around his middle and tucks her head under his chin. He smooths down her cat ears while lightly kissing the crown of her head. She pulls back slightly, then tiptoes, bringing her lips to his in the kind of kiss that reminds him why he annually dons crude festive wear.

“That’s more like it,” he says.

“Juggie, I’m sorry this is happening.”

“Don’t be. It’s harder on you than it is on me.”

Betty tucks herself back against him. She feels much less tense now. “Hi honey. I’m so happy to see you. It’s really romantic you came home early to seduce me in the humping reindeer sweater that makes me very horny.”

Jughead laughs a little, happy to feel her doing the same. “So do you think we have time to bang one out before lunch?”

“What do you think?”

“Yes?”

Betty detangles herself from him and leaves the bedroom, telling him to change before rejoining the festivities. He puts on a gray cable knit crewneck, but leaves his ugly sweater out on the semi-dirty clothes chair. For later.

Back outside, his suitcase has been set upright, and his jacket and extra sweater have been placed neatly across the top. Regardless of whoever folded it, the mess had lost him points with Alice for sure, so Jughead shakes her hand, fetches her a glass of water, and says that he and Betty are overjoyed she’s back Stateside. He’s positively thrilled to host her in their home and to finally meet her in person, not over a grainy Skype connection. The sentiment goes unreturned.

“So, Forsythe, you’ve been traveling,” Alice says, setting her glass on a coaster. He takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch, next to where Betty is perched on the armrest. She’s on the phone and making reservations for lunch.

“I have,” he replies. “To nowhere as interesting as to where you’ve been, but Toledo’s got it’s own charm. My dad’s there. And it’s Jughead, if that’s alright. Forsythe makes me feel a bit unoriginal.”

“Toledo is a fascinating city, Jug-head. It has a very rich history in glass-making. Did you not know that?”

The glass bowl where they keep their keys and loose change was a gift from JB. The vase Betty fills with flowers when he brings them home from the bodega, they’d bought from a local glass store there. The last time they’d visited, they’d taken a glass-blowing class with some hateable, chirpy couples, and he’d been offered a refund midway through because his paperweight was shaping up so heinously.

“You know, I had no idea, Ms. S. That’s fascinating. I’ll have to check it out next time I’m back,” he says.

“See that you do—I’m sure there are some beautiful pieces there that’d add some lightness to this space.” Alice touches her hand to the wall, then shakes it out like she’d just touched somebody else’s gum. “The books are nice, but this exposed brick is very heavy. It encroaches on the chakras.”

Jughead nods. “Does it ever. We’ve actually been looking into this yellow wallpaper that might cover it up, make the place a little cheerier, less insanity-inducing. Betts is still on the fence about it though.”

“So you’ve been traveling,” Alice says, transitioning smoothly. “You’ve been traveling out in the open in that sweater you were wearing before?”

“Well, not exactly as such, no. I had a layer over it, so the populus was in no way subjected to any visual representation of cervine mating rituals. It was really more an inside joke between Betty and me.”

“And yet you took it out into the public.”

“But covered, as I said.”

“Is sex a humorous concept to you?”

“Mom, please stop. You’ll scare him off, then you’ll have to stress about whether or not I’m going to go through life unmarried again.” Betty says, now off the phone. “Serafina’s holding a table for us, so we should start walking now. I know it’s a chain but everywhere else is full.”

“Serafina is fine. I didn’t object. It’ll be nice.” Alice rises and links her arm through his. “Come, Jug-head. Let’s catch up more.” He’s so taken aback by the gesture, his arm continues to flop pathetically at his side until Alice takes his hand and raises it to create the proper balance.

Over bread and a little plate of olive oil, Jughead entertains a barrage of questions about why he left the pretentious private school he’d been teaching at this past June, and impresses himself with the many euphemistic ways he comes up with to say because the children there were giant douchebags. Over salads topped with flaky shavings of parmesan cheese, Betty talks about an audiobook deal she’d negotiated for one of her clients and the pretty stacked cast that’s currently slated to voice it. Their entreés arrive, and then it’s Alice’s turn. Given the line of conversation, Jughead expects her to share a bit about her travels and how she’s been spending her time, which she does. Alice delves into her adventures in making homemade pasta with Sergio, an Italian stallion she’d met at a quaint little osteria. Then, she delves into her adventures in making love with him also, and Jughead nearly chokes on his tiny pizza. He wonders if a body swap has just occurred, if he’ll be interviewed for the news because of it, or if he’s having some sort of epileptic fit.

But the story continues, with Alice describing in almost academic precision the sensual interplay of sex and sustenance, and then he begins thinking perhaps this is Mamma Cooper’s revenge for his being smart about the ugly sweater. She’s trying to unsettle him, make him uncomfortable. It’s well-played because it’s working, he has no matching volley to return, and then he’s just pissed that he might be losing this battle of the sexual wits. Also, he’s finished his pizza and he’s still hungry.

Betty simply sips her Pinot Grigio and stares ahead at the mosaic on the wall with a funny sort of smile on her face. Jughead follows her lead and drinks deeply from his own glass. It helps, a little.

After the meal, Alice insists they do whatever it is they’d planned to do with the day when Betty asks what sights she’d like to see. She’ll just tag along. It’ll be fun! In the spirit of the season, Jughead decides to be magnanimous, and refrains reminding Alice he’d planned on spending the day with Betty bent over in right angles in front of him.

So they meander Fifth Avenue and look at the window displays. He takes Betty’s gloved hand and points out a few he knows will make her happy—books stacked into a shape of a tree, an interactive karaoke machine children crowd in front of and belt Christmas carols into—and he looks for any that might make her laugh.

“Look, Betts—bestiality!” Jughead says excitedly when he finds one, gesturing to a happy-looking Santa posed at an unfortunate angle behind Rudolph. He smiles at her melodic giggle.

That’s when Alice begins reminiscing about the City of Lights, her lover Jean-Claude, and their many shared petites morts. Jughead begins having regrets and considers flinging himself in front of the taxi cabs. He thinks that at least Betty seems to be taking all this in stride: she’s nursing a hot chocolate she’d popped into a coffee shop for the minute Alice said, “This reminds me of when I was in Paris...” and wearing another happy little smile, he presumes from the sugar high and not her mother’s tales. Betty offers her cup to him several times, but he’s too perturbed to stomach anything sweet. As they walk, Alice starts thinking French for dinner, homemade French because Jean-Claude had given her a recipe, so they gather ingredients for Cassoulet in the throng of last-minute grocery shoppers getting into the holiday spirit by snatching boxes of panettone from each other and arguing over who deserves it more.

Back in their apartment, jet lag hits Alice hard, so Jughead retreats to the bedroom with Betty and his laptop, and puts on some saccharine Christmas flick. There’s a run-down inn, an overworked city woman who inherits it, hates it, wants to flip it, sell it, a disgruntled handyman the woman has middling chemistry with, but who naturally reminds her of the meaning of life through Christmas cheer, snow, and his magic, life-altering dick. It’s uninspired. Betty is absolutely riveted.

When he hears the sounds of Alice’s snoring, they creep to the door and peek past the frame. It’s a sight to behold. Alice’s legs are spread wide like a starfish, and both her feet poke out from under the blanket. One arm is flung wide across the second pillow, and her mouth hangs slightly open. Jughead wonders if this is what the future has in store for him.

“I’d take stock of what my elbow’s near before you start wondering aloud if this is what your future has in store for you.” Betty says.

“Fie, Cooper. Not once did the thought cross my mind.”

“Uh huh.”

Alice lets out another honk and stirs. They both hush and crouch down further, exhaling in relief when she eventually rolls over.

“You know, for someone who took issue with my wearing what could be described as an educationally informative sweater on a plane, she’s oddly comfortable talking about sex,” Jughead whispers.

“It’s a fine discussion topic as long as it’s approached seriously.”

“And the sweater is unserious.”

“You said as much yourself. Ever since New Delhi, sex is apparently now this sacred part of life or whatever and needs be treated as such.”

“The flippant way you’re saying that concerns me.”

“I mostly block her out.”

“Teach me.”

“Later. We need to go out again.”

“What? No, no, no, I thought we could...” He tips his head towards the bed.

“We can’t, we’re out of bath towels. Caramel ripped that beige one to shreds last Sunday. Tatters everywhere. I think she was acting out.”

“Like that’s a development.”

“You were away and she had no one to direct her negative energies onto. She was pretty blue.”

“Really?” Jughead glances to the windowsill, where the cat is sitting with a sour expression on her face. “Garfield, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Don’t, she’s not that fat.”

“Betts.” He turns her to face the eighteen-pound orange mass. “My light. My love. She is. You pinched a nerve in your back trying to pick her up that one time. Also, the vet said.”

“Anyway,” Betty continues pointedly, “unless you’re okay with giving my mother the towel that says _keep calm and take your pants off_ on it, we have to go get one.”

Jughead has a feeling that the towel will be read as unserious yet again, and worse, likely to produce stories about Alice’s British Bond and her double-O’s, skip the seven experiences. He loves that towel, he’s very fond of it, it’d been a Valentine’s Day gag gift from Betty. Alice sure as hell won’t ruin it for him, so he says, “C’mon. Faster we go, faster we get back.”

At Bed Bath & Beyond, Vesuvius blows. It manifests in the form of a rant as Betty checks towel plushness with jabs ferocious enough to carry out the Five Point Exploding Heart Technique. Usually, he likes it when she rants, he thinks it’s very sexy when she’s wound up like that. Now, it’s still sexy because Betty is always sexy to him, but he also feels badly for her. The situation, putting it mildly, is a fucked one.

“This is so irritating,” she says.

Jughead feels a towel without really knowing what he’s feeling for. “What is?”

“This, all of this! My mom showing up, my mom showing up unannounced, as if that was the best way for her to reappear into my life after years of being absent from it. Did she think I wouldn’t want to make this a good experience for her, that it’d be fun for me to wake up with her literally in my face because she found the hideaway key? I mentioned where it was once, in passing, a couple years ago, and that she remembers. But picking up the phone and saying, ‘Hi daughter, I’m about to show up, ruin the party you’ve spent months convincing Veronica to let you host, and age you fifty years by screaming _surprise_ in your face while you’re sleeping?’ That just slipped her mind. And don’t even get me started on the constant ragging on you.”

“Hey, I’m fine. Betty, really, I can handle her. It rolls right off, I’m not bothered.”

“ _I’m_ bothered. I don’t like that she’s treating you this way.”

“I know,” Jughead says. “She’s not really doing anything that terrible, for what it’s worth. Is she passive-aggressive, yes, are the questions are pointed, absolutely, but I kind of already knew not all parents have my dad’s grunting and “want a beer?” brevity.”

“I don’t know what else to do about it besides telling her to stop.” Betty sighs heavily. “I hope it’s enough.”

“It’s enough. More than.” He hooks his index finger under her chin and tips her gaze up to his. “You’re doing great.”

Betty’s cheeks turn pink. Jughead smiles a bit, thinking it’s nice he’s still able to have that effect on her. “So I like these light blue ones,” she says after a moment, looking at the towels. “The color’s really calming, don’t you think?” He agrees it is.

Betty picks a washcloth and hand towel, but all the bath sheets she unfolds are beach towels. Apparently, those are not one and the same, nor is it acceptable to substitute one for the other, so they scour the shelves for the right kind.

“You know what,” Betty says eventually, pointing up to the soaring display. “I think those are them. Can you grab one?”

“If I had a vertical leap like that, we would not be living in an apartment with a chakra-encroaching wall.”

“Just get up on that shelf.”

“I like how you say ‘just,’ like ascending this particle board is a completely chill thing for me to do.” Jughead leans closer to her and lowers his voice. “Unless this is secretly more a case of you wanting to see the view of me from below, which hey, I get it. Happy to oblige, but you’ve got to be honest about it.”

“I’d rather see your vertical leap if I get to be choosy. Come on, everyone’s so busy. I don’t want to bother them when they’re already stressed. This’ll take you two seconds. I’ll spot you and everything.”

Jughead puts his foot on the shelf and presses down a bit. “Fine, but if I bring down the towers of plenty, I’m telling the corporate overlords you made me do it.”

“Good man,” Betty says as he begins climbing. “They’ll be wowed by your capitalist tendencies, throwing your fiancée under the bus like that. They might even offer you a managerial role.”

“Hey, you think that’ll impress your mom more than the teaching gig? Still can’t reach, by the way.”

“Go up one more.”

“They’re going to yell at me soon.” Still, he obliges, and a step higher, he tugs on one of the coveted towels. “These are really wedged in here.”

“Pull harder.”

“I’m trying. I know I make it look good but my mobility’s limited on this jungle gym of non-interchangeable bath linens.”

“Do you want me to do it?”

“Almost got it. Hey, step back—if these come tumbling down, they’re going to hit your pretty, pretty head.”

He’s vaguely aware of Betty feeling around his leg and not stepping back. “Huh,” she says.

“What?”

“I think I may’ve found them.”

“A Christmas miracle. I’m coming down.”

“Wait, let me check first. Scooch your foot. See, now, this is so bizarre. I think they’ve been shelved wrong.”

“This feels like a revelation you could have with me at ground-level.”

“I wonder if their organizational protocol’s outdated.”

“Basically dangling in midair here.”

“They’re completely backw—”

Then Betty screeches. There’s a loud crash. His life’s most important events flash before his eyes. In a feat of self-preservation and undying devotion to carry out his betrothed’s wishes even in the face of his own mortality, Jughead grabs at the towels as he tumbles, which is when the lot of them decide to dislodge. He lands, not very gracefully but on his feet, and the towels plummet around him like giant scary snowflakes. He glances around, surveying the damage. Then something conks him in the face. Hard.

_“Fuck!”_

“What the hell?” he hears Betty saying as he cups a hand over his left eye. “Jug, are you seeing this?”

“No.”

“It’s all lies! Look at this! It's a lie! It’s foam, it’s just towels wrapped around a bunch of foam—Jug, look!”

“Having trouble looking at anything right now,” he mutters.

“What’s wrong?”

“Towelgate casualty.” He slowly removes his hand and tries blinking very slowly.

“Oh.” Betty’s brow furrows. “I didn’t realize.” She holds up three fingers. “How many?”

“Definitely five.”

She smiles, she rolls her eyes. “C’mere, let me see.”

Betty takes his face into her hands, feeling around with gentle, cold fingertips. Jughead stays very still. Her touch feels so good it nearly eliminates the pain entirely, and he doesn’t want her to stop. “Don’t know how to tell you this,” she says eventually, “but this may be the thing that ends you.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. Yeah, It’s definitely looking fatal.”

“Ah, well. Can’t say it hasn’t been a good run. You should know that it’s okay for you to love again. I’m supportive of that, in theory.”

“Only in theory?”

“That’s right. I plan on haunting you in case that wasn’t clear, so it’s not like I won’t be around. We’ll have weird ghostly sex whenever possible. Maybe even some weird ghostly kids, too, if the mechanics allow for it. I envision this new corporeal Mr. of yours being more for show than anything, but you can tell people you love him, to keep up appearances and whatnot. But don’t lay it on too thick. You know how bad I am with sharing and that’s just food.”

“V’s single again.” Betty presses lightly on the bridge of his nose and raises her brows. He shakes his head a bit, letting her know that doesn’t hurt. “I might bark up that tree.”

“Really. Interesting. So it’s going to be a new Mrs.?”

“Possibly. I’m not sure I want another penis after yours.”

“Oh, Betts,” he says. “That’s so romantic.”

She presses a kiss to his eyelid, one that’s tender and very soft. “We’ll get some ice on it when we get home. It may still bruise though.”

Betty begins moving away but he’s greedy now that he’s had an appetizer of her affection. He places his hands on her hips to hold her still and kisses her in the midst of towel-shaped foam. It starts out softly, innocently, with her hand brushing against his cheek and enough space for Jesus between them, but it quickly turns into something hot and desperate, a celebration—of life, of bringing down the walls of terrycloth Jericho without so much as a trumpet, and surviving to tell the tale. Jughead wraps his arms across her back, and Betty pushes her hips against his, exerting just enough pressure that he’s breathing raggedly when they break for air.

“Oh, I missed you,” she murmurs in the intermission. Then her mouth is on his again, and he starts thinking that it’s really going to happen, he’s really going to have sex in this Bed Bath & Beyond, right up against the wall of fraud, and end up splashed across the local news with his and Betty’s dishevelled mugshots under the headline: _Festive fun gone too far! Area Man claims, “We got carried away in making merry.”_

One of Betty’s hands is under his sweater, grazing the skin just above the waistband of his jeans, and one of his has weaseled its way down to her ass, when he hears a loud “Ahem.” Betty squeals and jumps away from him. Her face is bright red. She looks totally confused, like she has no idea where she is or how she got to be there, and it’s something of an ego-booster. The employee’s expression is just bone-tired.

“Ma’am, please. This is a family store.”

Betty nods ferociously. “Of course it is. And we know that, too. We’re very sorry.”

“Incredibly,” Jughead adds. “See, the thing is we’re getting married, and the stuff of wedlock just had us a little excited.” Betty flashes her ring, providing the evidence. “No excuse though.” He nudges Betty. “Honey, I told you we ought to wait ‘til we got home. Not that I don’t adore your passion.”

The employee’s expression softens, but grows firm again when she begins examining the mess. “Did you bring down the towels in your excitement?”

“Um,” Betty says, doing the same. “It would appear that way, wouldn’t it? Again, we’re very, very sorry. We were actually trying to save you the trouble, believe it or not. I couldn’t find the bath sheets. We can help you put them back up.”

“That’s alright. But if you could just step aside, we need the space to set everything straight again.”

While Betty slinks away in a torrent of apologies, Jughead grabs an extra set of towels, and explains when they’re out of earshot, “Just in case those catch fire on the way back. It feels like that kind of day.”

When they arrive home from the palace of lies, Alice is awake, dicing an onion, and singing along to _Zou Bisou Bisou_.

The disturbing thought that simmers in his mind throughout dinner is that if Jean-Claude sexed as well as he did hand out his Cassoulet recipe to his lovers, then Alice Smith must’ve been a very pleased faux-Parisian dame. The food is rich and delicious, and Jughead has several helpings. As they eat, Alice gets personal again, but now with questions for him. First, she requests to hear about how he proposed even though Betty says, “Mom, I’ve told you this story a million times.”

“And now I want to hear Jug-head tell it. Since he’s someone of so many words.”

So Jughead recounts that one evening, after an excellent bottle of Viognier and a wonderful dinner he and Betty prepared together, he’d dropped to one knee while they were stacking the dishwasher, suddenly overcome by the simple pleasures of domesticity, the sexiness of the suds, of clean china, and asked would please she say yes, a thousand times yes to their happily ever after?

The story is his and Betty’s agreed-upon sanitization, because the unabridged version involves him blurting out in the height of passion, with Betty’s legs around his waist and her forehead pressed against his, “Betts, I’m gonna marry the fuck out of you.” He’d only realized it later when she said, still breathless and boneless she lay on his chest, “I’m gonna marry the fuck out of you, too, Juggie.” There wasn’t much else to do after that except retrieve the ring from his sock drawer, scrap all plans he had to do it in clothing other than his boxers, and tell her he loved her to the point of madness, that she was the loveliest, most beautiful, most fiercely intelligent person he’d ever met, his absolute favorite person, and it’d be the honor of his life if she’d consider spending the rest of it with him. They’d both shed tears of happiness and promptly forgotten about their dinner in the oven as they celebrated. That’d burned, so they had a good old fashioned NYC pie delivered instead, and enjoyed the pizza and Viognier in bed, straight from the box and bottle.

He is, however, is nowhere near as sexually enlightened as Alice when it comes to sharing the intimate details of his sex life. If that’s a chakra, it has yet to open for him, so it’s Cliffs Notes for Maman Cooper.

“And remind me again how you two got together?” Alice requests. She swirls her wine and takes a performative sniff before sipping. “Elizabeth is really so stingy with the details during our calls.”

Jughead is glad to be able to tell this tale with a little more honesty. He stretches his arm across the back of Betty’s chair and draws small patterns between her shoulder blades with his thumb. “Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Connected at a mutual friend’s party, while Betty here was wearing very ordinary, non-conspicuous clothing, I might add. Watched a movie together, shared some dry desserts, engaged in some inter”—Betty coughs loudly—“national musical exploration, fell in love. Admittedly, there was a bit of a bump in the road, and not just because Betty put me in felonious, life-threatening danger on one occasion, or screamed bloody murder at me in a bar. You see, I wrote her some deeply romantic, heartfelt messages, really poetic, Byronic stuff, and it all went rudely unanswered. After I’d been nothing but polite, kind, and gracious to her, too! The height of niceness. I couldn’t understand it. It was actually pretty devastating, her radio silence; my faith in the fairer sex was just shattered. I did at that point question my ability to ever love again. But after a lot of groveling and grand gestures—I’m telling you, Ms. S, the karaoke Betts sang, absolutely earsplitting—I decided to be the bigger person. Frankly, I was a little concerned what depths of personal embarrassment she’d go through to get me back. Also, she bought me a sweater, and I really wanted it. Didn’t seem very gentlemanly to take the gift but reject the girl.”

Betty places her hand on his knee. “I’m not sure that’s quite how it went,” she says, smiling over at him.

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how it went,” he replies, grinning back.

Alice simply raises an eyebrow and tells him if he’s thinking about telling that story at the wedding, she expects it to be heavily edited.

After clearing dinner, Betty suggests putting on something festive to watch, but Alice twists her lip to each suggestion, replying, “Hmm, I’m not quite feeling that,” until Betty finally relents and says tiredly, “Well, how about _Eat Pray Love?”_

Alice’s entire face lights like a bulb. “Now there’s a suggestion! Good thinking, Betty. Do you own it?”

They rent it. He squeezes Betty’s arm when she navigates past _It’s a Wonderful Life_ in their purchased items inventory, recalling her crestfallen expression when Alice breezily pooh-poohed that suggestion, and idly massages the soles of her feet when she tucks herself against him, hoping it comforts her like it usually does.

The movie’s crap. The sexualization of gnocchi and Chianti is cringey and gratuitous, and the nice scenery Julia Roberts stares contemplatively at has his hand twitching towards his computer, ready to blow his savings on a pair of first-class tickets to anywhere but here. The only silver lining is that Alice pauses the film and yammers on about its many inaccuracies so often, she’s conked out and snoring again before Julia’s even moved on to the praying leg of her journey.

They leave the TV on and retreat to the bedroom. There, Betty is on him, kissing him, pushing him up against the door before he even has it shut. Her hands are roaming everywhere. They pull impatiently at his sweater and fiddle with his belt buckle like she doesn’t know what she wants off him first. He helps, reaching behind himself to tug off his sweater and t-shirt. Betty removes her fussy twinset, revealing one of his favorite bras on her, a pretty blue lace one. Goosebumps dot her bare skin from the cold air. He rubs his hands over her arms, her shoulders in an effort to chase them away, and dips to kiss the curve of her neck.

“Thank you for coming home early,” Betty says as she runs her fingers through his hair. “It really was romantic. I’m sorry today didn’t end up going like you wanted.”

Jughead nips lightly along the line of her collarbone. “The things you say sometimes. I spent today with you. That’s exactly what I wanted.”

Though the bed is not far, he carries her to it anyway, lays her down gently atop the duvet, and covers her body with his, keeping her warm. He tells her that adores her, that he loves her more than anyone or anything, and because she’s competitive, Betty replies that she loves him even more than that. As he kisses along her jawline, she murmurs that she can’t wait to marry him. It overwhelms him to think how stupidly lucky he is to have a love like this in his life. Betty tries to flip them, and even though he’s been dreaming of her doing just that all week, he presses his hand down on her hip bone so her back remains flat against the bed. Her eyes had been glazed over during the movie and she’d felt heavy in his arms, tired. She hadn’t even mustered up enough energy to be annoyed that her mother talked through the movie. Whatever worries she’d voiced to him about the weekend’s unexpected developments were the tip of the iceberg of what existed in her mind, so he unbuttons her jeans and whispers, “Hey, let me take care of you right now, okay?” When she nods, he kisses her breasts, the planes of her stomach, he sucks at the soft skin of her inner thighs, and it’s just as good, because he’s been dreaming of doing exactly this to her all week, too. He takes his time and relishes everything: the sound of her gasp when he puts his mouth on her, the feel of her heels pressing into his back, the sight of her arching hers as he makes her come. Her fingers twist in his hair, and she whispers his name over and over, like a chant.

As he’s working his way back up her body, she says, “Juggie,” and he pauses to glance up at her. She’s smiling radiantly at him. “I love you very much.”

“I gathered,” he replies, grinning.

Betty swats his shoulder and laughs a little. The best he can do for her this weekend is to be supportive, to make her smile when he can, so the sound reminds him he’s doing something right. Jughead wonders what it must be like to not have to carry such a mixed bag of emotions when it comes to seeing one’s family. He figures it must be nice.

But Betty is on top of him after that, and then he is not thinking about much else aside from her. She grinds her hips into his in a way that makes him groan, kisses the sore skin around his injured eye with such softness it makes his heart ache, and it all feels so good that when he hears a muffled sound, he truly believes for a moment that it’s the gears spinning loose in his head and rattling around his skull like pinballs. But Betty stops and looks at him with a confused expression, letting him know she’d heard it as well.

“Was that the door?” she asks.

“Couldn’t tell. Maybe?” The knock comes again, louder now. “Yeah, definitely.”

“It’s probably someone else’s pizza.” Betty kisses him and quickly throws on some clothes from the chair, her favorite sweatpants and his ugly sweater, which she looks damn fine in. “I’ll get rid of them.”

Jughead hears the sound of her footsteps, the lock turning, the door opening, but not her voice. A silent minute passes, and then he starts thinking that maybe something is wrong, maybe someone has snatched his lovely, beautiful, fiercely intelligent fiancée away from him, driven her off in an unmarked van, and ruined his life. He’s not so horny after that. Jughead dresses quickly, nearly tripping over himself as he hops into his jeans, but at the door, Betty is still there, staring past it with her mouth slightly parted. Alice is too. His presence draws their attention. Everyone looks at him and Jughead suddenly feels very out of place in his own apartment. His hair, which he quickly tries to make presentable with his fingers, is dark amongst the flaxen-haired lot, and he is his own rock, his own island, a single Jones amongst many Coopers.

But they are all waiting for his response. Jughead figures he cannot simply disappear to Fiji with Betty in tow, nor can he slowly shut the door, say, “Sorry wrong apartment, try the next one over, pal!” and pretend that he hadn’t seen their guest and his monogrammed duffle bag. That shit would probably be very unfestive and nonfamilial, so he steps forward and says as brightly as he can manage, “Hey, Mr. Cooper, nice to see you! Come on in. We have a great towel for you.”


	2. december 24th

Jughead wakes on Christmas Eve before Betty. He understands it. The night before had been exhausting for her, and not in a good way. They’d never gotten back to the good after Hal’s unceremonious divorce announcement, Alice’s lecture on the importance of giving one’s hosts notice and time to prepare for one’s arrival, which was just the richest shit he’d ever heard, and shared parental side-eye at his ugly sweater.

“Betty, tell me you don’t wear that out in public,” Hal said, mid a very unchivalrous argument as to why he should get the pull-out couch and Alice, the air mattress. A hotel room was out of the question, because if Alice got to stay at the apartment, then Hal did, too.

Jughead carefully bridges the wall of blankets and pulls her against him so her back is against his chest. “I love you, Betts, I love you so much,” he says, just quietly enough that she hums contentedly but doesn’t fully wake. He repeats this, over and over, hoping to root the sentiment into the deepest parts of her psyche, but when a very loud crash sounds, Betty flails into full consciousness, jolting upright and throwing her head back. Right into his.

_“Ow!”_

“Oh my God!” She looks around with wild eyes. “What’s happening?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jughead mutters.

“Did you hear that?”

“The sound of my nose shattering into tiny pieces? Yeah. Jesus, how solid is your skull?”

“Hopefully very. I’ve been taking those calcium supplements.”

“They’re working.”

She leans down to kiss his cheek. “I’m sorry, Juggie.”

“‘S okay. I think that was your parents.” He sniffs the air: sulfur, burning. He listens: bickering, more bickering. “I’m assuming someone’s cooking. Or doing murder. Could honestly be either.”

“I’ll go check.”

“Holler if you need help hiding the body.”

After dressing in jeans and a plain green sweater, Jughead ducks into the bathroom to ready himself for the day. He sighs at his reflection, he looks ridiculous. His nose is red. The skin around his eye is various shades of purple and blue. In the kitchen, he can hear Betty saying “why do you have strawberries and curry powder out?” and “no, actually, none of that’s my favorite, why in God’s name would you put these two things together in pancakes?” Jughead takes a breath. He thinks even if Hal and Alice had no clue what pancakes Betty liked best, blueberry would have been a safe, obvious place to start.

Breakfast sucks. The food’s inedible and the company, aside from Betty, is crap. Hal opens the meal with, “So, Alice, how’s my elliptical?” Alice replies, “In the storage unit, getting as much use as it would’ve if it were with you,” and it’s downhill from there. First, there’s inventory taken on where all the other useless items of the marriage ended up, which includes a lengthy aside on the ones that’ve now been equitably distributed to Hal’s newest ex-wife. “If it’d gone to me, then it would’ve stayed in the storage unit, in the family,” Alice repeats over and over, and Jughead thinks for a while she’s talking about some fur coat or war sword until he hears the words “Black + Decker” and “Hamilton Beach.”

“Food processor,” Betty whispers to him. “Pretty sure it was a Cuisinart.”

Then when he thinks it can’t get worse, there’s wedding talk.

“I was thinking, Betty,” Alice begins, as she spears a grape with her fork tine, “it might be nice if you had both parents walk you down the aisle.”

“Typical,” Hal says. “This is so typical of you Alice, always needing all the attention on yourself.”

“Oh please, Hal, it’s 2021. It’s time to stop being threatened by a successful woman in the spotlight. So what if it is?”

Jughead attempts to argue that if anyone should be in the spotlight at Betty’s wedding, it should be Betty, but any voice that isn’t Hal’s or Alice’s goes ignored until Betty slams her hands down on the table.

“Enough,” she hisses. “Stop this. We’re not even doing that kind of wedding, so you are arguing for no reason.”

Alice’s entire face pinches, like she’d actually taken a moment to taste the so-called breakfast she’d made instead of just subjecting everyone else to it. “Then what kind of wedding are you doing?”

“The simple kind. We’re going to City Hall and doing a nice dinner afterward.”

“A nice dinner where?”

“Pop’s.”

“What Pop’s? Where’s Pop’s? Does Jug-head’s father cook?”

Jughead’s father drinks, he thinks but doesn’t say.

“Pop’s in Riverdale.”

“Pop’s in River—the _diner?_ Oh my God. Oh my God.” The fork slips from Alice’s hand as she goes to smack Hal on the shoulder. “Don’t just sit there being perpetually ineffectual, Harold, do something about this.”

“Betty, you’re a Cooper,” Hal says.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that this is unacceptable. You can’t have your wedding reception at a burger shack.”

“Too bad. That’s where it’s happening. Jug and I have a lot of friends in Riverdale, and Pop’s is an important place to us. So you can come and enjoy an unacceptable burger with us, otherwise, we’ll send you the unacceptable polaroids.”

A long stretch of frightening, deafening quiet follows that announcement. Jughead feels badly that he’d been largely silent during a discussion about his own wedding, so he tries to contribute something positive.

“Hey, Mr. C, did you hear about Betty’s new audiobook deal?” he asks. “It’s incredible, actually, Betts did such great work, she got these big names to sign on to voice—”

“Hang on,” Hal says, turning to Betty. “What deal? You’re making deals?”

“Well, yeah. It’s a pretty big part of my job.”

“I thought you did editing.”

“Are you serious? Dad, that was years ago. I’m a lit agent now.”

“Way to be absent in your daughter’s life, Hal. I suppose you have no clue what Polly’s up to, either.”

“Actually I do, Alice. She’s in Seoul, gaining cultural experiences like a young woman should. Emphasis on young.”

“You’re really putting in a good bid for father of the year, aren’t you? Polly’s in Surabaya.”

“Singapore, Mom,” Betty sighs. “Polly is in Singapore.”

He was actually under the impression Polly was in Shanghai since she’d posted a photo of herself on Instagram at the Longhua Temple with a very questionable caption a few days ago, but for once, Jughead doesn’t feel the need to throw his conjectures into the mix. He silently mashes his pancakes into tiny particles so they blend into the syrup, but when Alice turns to him with a question, likely in retaliation for his daring to enter into the state of matrimony with burgers and shakes, he can’t very well ignore that.

“So, Jug-head,” Alice says, folding her hands under her chin, “on a scale of one to ten, how well do you think you please my daughter sexually?”

“God, Mom!”

“What?”

“This is not a topic for the table!”

“Why not? I’m just looking out for you, Betty. One of the things I learned during my sensuality studies is that it’s important to be open about these things. Sexuality is a part of life and we must treat it that way. Talk about it openly. Your sexual pleasure is paramount. It’s the stuff of a lasting marriage, you know.”

Alice is staring directly at Hal, so Jughead figures he’s not required to answer. But then she looks to him with the word _well?_ written all over her face, and he hears himself saying, “Eight, maybe?” He clears the squeakiness from his throat. He is so off his game today. “Seven-point-five, eight? I think Betty’s pretty satisfied where all that’s concerned, but there’s always room for improvement. Nobody’s perfect.”

In this moment, he is painfully aware he is far from it. Alice gestures between him and Betty with her fork. “Is that accurate, Betty? Somewhere between a seven and eight?”

Betty’s eyes look like they’re about to fall out of her head. He wipes his palm off on his jeans and readies himself to catch them in case they do. “No, Mom, that’s not accurate. Jug’s fantastic. The sex is mind-blowing. I see stars and fireworks in the parade of petites morts. Ten out of ten. Happy now?”

Alice simply shrugs. “It’s not about my happiness, it’s about yours.”

Hal takes a sip of juice and turns to him very slowly. “You and Betty have sexual relations?”

Jughead drops his face into his hand. “Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t look so shocked, Hal. It’s what normal, non-sexually repressed people do. They have sex.”

“I am aware of what normal, non-sexually repressed people do, Alice.”

“Well, how should I know? It’s not like you’ve ever given any indication. You should be grateful your daughter doesn’t take after you in that regard.”

“Okay, you know what? This breakfast is over,” Betty lets her cutlery clatter loudly on the plate. “Jug and I are going out. We have last minute shopping to do. You guys can—I don’t know. Do whatever. If someone ends up dead, the trash chute’s down the hall, and the bleach is under the sink. Don’t make it my problem.”

Betty takes him to a store uptown that has framed images of lighthouses and rich-looking white people laughing aboard boats on the walls. There are pastel sweaters and salmon-colored polos everywhere, and the air smells of briny sea breeze. He is sure they have stumbled onto the official WASP breeding ground. He wonders if this place has ever been forensically studied before, and where the mitosis occurs—do the preppies emerge with their collars fully popped, or do they pop them themselves after cellular division? Jughead feels unmoored, literally, like he’s on the _Freewinds_ or some other equally inescapable boat. He fears that at any moment, someone will drape a sweater over his shoulders, call him Forsythe Pendleteon the third unironically, and say, “Welcome to the mothership. You are home at last!” He doesn’t want to stress Betty any further, so he keeps quiet, but he’d very much like to leave. This place is encroaching on all his chakras in a humongous way.

Betty is wearing a fair isle sweater. It blends right into this place so Jughead sticks close by as she shops, hoping to stay within the orbit of her camouflage. She picks out gifts for him to give to her parents: a tie for Hal in the same fishy pink running through the store like a disease, a printed silk scarf for Alice, and selects sweaters to give to them herself. He tries to keep her spirits up by scowling when she holds especially heinous sweaters up to him to “check for size.”

“You look like angry sunshine,” she laughs. This sweater has two different shades of yellow on it.

“Glad to see my degradation is so amusing to you.”

“Try it on?”

“Hah. Good one.”

“Worth a shot. Here, before I forget—read this and make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.” Betty taps a few times on her phone screen, then hands it to him.

_Hi all—so in a very unexpected turn of events my parents have, without my knowledge or permission, decided to gift me with their joint presence. Unfortunately, since they both take sweaters very seriously, we will sadly be unable to conduct the ugly sweater portion of the evening as previously planned. But dinner is still on, so wear something normal, bring your merriment—we’ll definitely need it—and please accept our apologies in advance for any trauma the evening may cause you to experience._

“Any typos?” Betty asks when he looks up.

“No, no typos. But you’re sure you want to preface the party with this disclaimer? It may not go that badly.”

Betty simply laughs and hits send. Jughead reads the replies as she continues shopping. In a show of great emotional understanding, Archie says: _haha sucks, you’re parents are the worst_. Veronica replies: _don’t worry, B, we’ll still have a good time!_ and adds that she’ll be bringing a grand surprise to help the fun along. Jughead is somewhat certain this grand surprise is just Veronica’s thinly veiled reference to herself. Toni doesn’t respond, Cheryl says: _tell your father I shall be leaving Mama Blossom at home—we wouldn’t want a repeat of senior year now, would we?_ and Reggie replies: _cooper, would u say you resemble ur mom a lot or just like, a little bit?_

Jughead writes back: _we look forward to slaving away at a stove for all you very supportive and understanding people_ , and does not admit to anyone that Cheryl has given him an idea.

“Hey, what about inviting Fred to the fray?” he says. “I know he usually does the Dads-of-Riverdale thing, but he might make an exception if you’re the one asking.”

Betty glances at him. “I don’t think Fred’s in any rush to see my parents. My mom broke his window once. She threw a toaster through it.”

“You’re kidding. Affable Fred pissed your mom off? What’d he do?”

“Nothing. She was trying to take down my dad’s golf clubs and her aim wasn’t very accurate. He’s not going to scare them into behaving.”

“Well no, I don’t think anyone could do that. But it might help diffuse the situation. Your dad and Fred can bond over shared interests.”

“Divorce isn’t exactly a shared interest.”

“I meant the Dads-of-Riverdale cruise. I don’t know, maybe your dad misses going. Fred can catch him up on the gossip.”

Betty looks thoughtful. “Maybe,” she says. “I’ll try Arch. I should probably remind him about the dress code, anyhow.”

“Yeah, good call. You know how he is with reading.”

“Jug, stop it, he knows how to,” Betty says, bringing the phone to her ear. After a moment, she frowns. “I’m not getting reception. Hold these, I’ll try outside.”

“You’re leaving me in here?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because they might start dressing me in stuff and talking to me about the levels. I’m not convinced this isn’t some sort of MLM scheme.”

Betty rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You wouldn’t like me as much if I weren’t.”

“I’ll be gone two seconds. Put that tongue of yours to work if necessary. Didn’t you say it was very capable?”

“It’s not at one-hundred today. I didn’t get enough breakfast for it to be.”

Betty simply gives his cheek a little pat before stepping outside. While she’s gone, Jughead makes a game of finding the ugliest sweater on the mannequins. They’re all contenders, but he decides a pale yellow number featuring rows and rows of sheep, frozen in sexless, knitted eternity, is the winner. He’s wondering if these sheep are a metaphor for the characterless, sleepy nature of this store, or if they’re some sort of festive nod to a manger scene when he sees a sales associate coming at him with a tall stack of the very same ovine sweater. Quickly, Jughead looks to the door, hoping that Betty will be coming through it to his rescue. No such luck. She’s still on the phone, laughing like a schoolgirl as she strolls around in circles.

“Sir, are you looking for something in particular?” the sales associate asks. Her voice is bright. He’s suspicious of it, it’s too chirpy for anyone working in retail over the holidays.

“Nope, I’m all set,” he says, showing the items Betty had given him to hold onto. “Thanks though.”

“No problem. The registers are over there if you’re having trouble finding them. Right under the ship’s wheel.”

Taking steps to leave this place seems like the move, so Jughead braves the terrain. As his items are being scanned, he spies a pretty green velvet ribbon. It’s tied into a bow and affixed onto one of those hair ties that are always popping up like little pests around their apartment. Jughead glances out the shop window. Betty’s expression is serious now. She’s stopped her pacing. He remembers the menu she’d spent hours preparing, the red ribbon she’d crafted twice because Caramel destroyed the first one, thinking it was some sort of red, glittery vermin, and feels his heart go out to her.

“This too, please,” Jughead says, placing the green ribbon on the counter.

After shopping, Betty ignores his raised eyebrow and says she’s feeling sushi for lunch. Jughead is not about to deny her what she wants, but he orders a chicken teriyaki bento as a precautionary measure, even though he typically can’t resist a good rainbow roll. As they’re eating edamame, laughing over the latest in a long line of excuses he’s received from Berdie, a student of his who’s now claiming he can’t submit his final paper because he’s visiting his father across the pond for Christmas and “WiFi doesn’t exist in London yet,” Betty’s phone rings.

Her mouth thins into a flat line. “What, Mom?” she greets.

Jughead uses the time Betty’s on the phone to respond to Berdie. He wishes the kid happy holidays, extends his deepest sympathies for Berdie’s having to suffer through the U.K.’s shocking refutation of globalization and inability to get with the technological revolution like the rest of the world’s great powers, but says that Berdie better find a way to get the paper to him ASAP since he’s already given him two extensions in which to do so. But when Betty kicks him under the table and mouths, “It’s Christmas, cut him some slack,” Jughead relents. He tells the kid he has until the twenty-seventh, and even graciously suggests that Berdie email his final paper via whoever’s WiFi he’d managed to co-opt to send his panicky excuse.

Alice is a loud talker, so Jughead hears the entirety of Betty’s conversation. In the spirit of the season, the Coopers are apologetic, selectively—they’re sorry that Betty felt the need to be upset about breakfast—and want to put the morning behind them. Hal is planning some sort of mid-afternoon surprise. Jughead promises himself that if this surprise turns out to be Polly Cooper on their doorstep, then his next surprise is going to be his and Betty’s vanishing act to Honolulu.

“They want to do a walk in the park before,” Betty says, placing her hand over her phone. “My mom wants to take photos for her travel scrapbook. Are you down?”

“Sure,” he says; there’s not much else to. “I’m following your lead. Going where you go.” And because he’s a good fiancé, nothing but infinitely supportive and unrelentingly generous, he hands Betty his credit card when they pass a coffee shop chalkboard advertising the best hot chocolate in the city, and says, “Hey, go nuts. Splurge if you want, get the whipped cream.”

To their credit, the Coopers improve their behavior. This means that instead of bickering in front of Betty, they walk a couple paces ahead and bicker by themselves. Hal’s face is red throughout the walk, Alice’s is pinched, and she doesn’t take a single photo, but at least Betty seems happy: she’s sipping away at her drink with a smile and a pretty blush on her cheeks, swinging their joined hands.

“Try it,” she says to him every so often, and by the fifth time, he accepts the outstretched cup since he’s getting a little cold. “I’m warning you, it’s kind of magical.”

Jughead sips. Many things suddenly become clear. “Well, of course it is, you sly, crafty little gremlin. How drunk are you?”

Betty beams at him. “Pretty.”

“I’ll bet. This is ridiculously strong. And yet you’re not singing or scaling any trees.” He prods at her cheeks with his index finger. “You sure you’re my Betts?”

“Last time I checked.”

“In that case, shame on you for leaving me out ‘til now.”

“Hey, I’ve been offering since yesterday. Shame on you for not reading between the obvious lines. And you call yourself an English teacher. And my fiancé.”

“Do you have more?”

Betty flashes her coat. In her inner pocket, there is a red steel flask with Cheryl’s smiling mug on it, under the words: _TT’s 28th: Hosted by Cheryl Blossom_. It’s a very large flask. He presumes that was intentionally done so as to maximize the size of Cheryl’s picture. Jughead lifts the flask slightly by its metal cap. It’s heavy, there’s still plenty left, so he takes another sip.

Hal’s big surprise is ice skating with insufferable tourists under the big tree at Rockefeller Center. Betty says, “Oh!” excitedly, then babbles on about ice skating lessons, chicken noodle soup, and Pop’s. But as Jughead looks at his own ticket, unease unfurls in his stomach and latches onto his vital organs.

“Hey so, I think I’ll sit this one out,” he says. “I’m not really feeling up for skating right now.”

“What? No, no, no,” Betty says, slurring slightly. “You have to, it’ll be nice! It’ll be fun, it’s romantic, it’s— _oh_.” Her expression grows sympathetic. “Poor Juggie.” She sticks her out her bottom lip. “It’s okay that you don’t know how to. Practically no one out there knows what they’re doing. Everyone looks like an idiot.”

“And here I was worried I’d look good doing it. You go. Have a nice moment with your folks. I’ll just sit here and catch up on my current events.”

“You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“No one’s embarrassed. I’d just rather not be a zoo exhibit today.”

“I’ll teach you,” Betty says. “I’m a great teacher. I’ll spot you.”

He points to his eye. “Because you spotted me so well yesterday?”

“I’ll be the wind beneath your wings.”

“I think I’ll roost here if it’s all the same to you.”

“I’m taking the flask with me.”

He shrugs. “I’m pretty drunk as is.”

“Fine.” Betty sets her hands on her hips. The big guns are coming. “My dad was petty and didn’t get my mom a ticket. You’ll be hanging here with her. I’m sure she’ll have more questions for you about our sex life.”

Jughead stands and bops the pom-pom on her beanie. It’s lilac and very adorable on her. “Silly Betts,” he says. “You should’ve led with that.”

Before Jughead is even fitted for his skates, Hal wipes out on the ice. He hands back his rentals, huffing that since the sport has changed since he last participated, he’ll have no part in it. The rink’s managers offer the ticket to Alice, but she turns her nose up and says, “No, thank you” so haughtily, Betty is forced to explain that the gesture was perfectly lovely, they’re just in the middle of a sticky family situation. They tell her not to worry, they get this a lot, they’ve seen it all. Jughead wonders if they’ve ever seen it quite like this.

Jughead ignores the fact his skates are warm and slightly damp, and follows Betty to the rink. She confidently steps out onto the ice, sighs a happy little “ah,” like she’s finally come home, then turns back to him, crouching slightly, as though she were approaching a small child or puppy.

“Okay, Jughead,” she says. “So you’re going to slowly step onto the ice. Slowly, slowly. It’s a pretty tricky sport to get a hang of, so don’t worry if you can’t do some of the stuff I can, or if you fall a couple times.”

“Thanks for that. I definitely won’t now.”

“I’m glad. Here, take my hand.” He does, and places one foot on the ice, then the other. “Good. You can hold on to the side if you feel unsteady. See? Like those kids are doing over there.”

“Will do. That’s great advice.”

“Okay,” Betty says. “Now skate!”

“‘Okay, now skate?’ I thought you said you were a great teacher.” Jughead points down to his feet. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

“Well, just put one in front of the other,” Betty says, so he grabs the side railing and begins clopping on the ice, trying to walk across it. “No, no, not like that! Glide, you have to glide. It’s one smooth motion.”

“Oh, glide _._ Gotcha. It’s all coming together now. Should I lock my legs? Keep my knees together?”

“Yes. No. Hang on.” Betty skates forward. She wobbles a little, though he can’t tell if it’s from her lack of practice or the alcohol. “No, bend your legs a bit. Knees shoulder-width apart. Also, lean forward slightly.”

“And then just glide.”

“Right.”

“Which means?”

“Push off with one foot. Transfer your weight to your other leg as you’re moving and just kind of keep repeating that.”

“Right. Okay.” He takes a very big breath. Then another. “So something like this?” Jughead says, and letting go of the railing, he skates forward with a grin, giving an obnoxious little wave as he passes Betty and her wide open mouth.

“You know how to skate,” Betty says, once she’s caught up.

“Yep.”

“Very well actually.”

“Never said I couldn’t. You just assumed.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because of my tendency to repress painful childhood experiences. Also, I wanted to see what your face would look like after all that patronizing and self-congratulation.”

Betty gives him a once-over. He does a small swizzle, bringing his toes together, then his heels, showing off a little. “You have good balance,” she says. “You skate better than I do.”

“I think it’s wise if I not comment on that.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing?”

“Well, where’d you learn all this?”

“Toledo.”

“When?”

“I was a teeny-tiny youth.”

“How?”

“I fell down a lot until I one day didn’t.”

She thwacks his shoulder, wobbling a little. “Tell me properly or else I’ll—”

“Okay!” he says, laughing as he steadies her. “Okay, bossy. Sheesh. Do you know I actually love it when your face gets all serious like that? I’m sure my sober self will regret telling you, but it’s such a turn on. Anyway. So back in the day, there used to be this ice rink near the trailer park. I think it may’ve turned into a senior care facility a couple years ago, though I can’t say for sure. Very run of the mill place, buy a ticket, rent some skates, the usual. Obviously we couldn’t afford it, but on Wednesdays, they’d open it up for kids in the neighborhood as sort of a community outreach thing. They’d give you the skates for free, and I think there may’ve been an instructor there, too.”

“So you went.”

“Mhm. Not for my own edification, mind you. Thing is, they needed the kids to be supervised by an adult, which was kind of purpose-defeating since which trailer park kids had parents with the time to take them skating on random Wednesday afternoons? I digress. I couldn’t give two straws about going round in mindless circles, contemplating the meaningless of existence myself, but JB was so into it. I guess the nihilistic streak runs in the family. It wasn’t like my dad could take her since he was either working or out boozing, so I did. Luckily, the people there had a lot of sympathy for a scowling ten-year-old and his bouncy kid sister. So I took JB to Mommy and Me skate sessions, and despite everything in me that became muted and lifeless because of it, I learned.”

Betty brings a mittened hand over her heart. “Jughead Jones,” she says softly, “you were a Mommy?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m going to cry.”

“Very funny.”

“No, I’m serious.”

He comes to a quick stop, sending up a fine powder of snow with the blade of his skates. “Oh shit,” he says. Betty isn’t just going to cry, she’s already crying. Her tears collect flecks of mascara from her lashes and leave murky gray lines on her face. Her nose is quickly turning a rather festive shade of red. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he says. “It’s a happy story, Betts! Everything turned out okay. JB loved going, she said it was sweet of me to take her.”

“It was, that’s why I’m crying!” Betty swipes at her cheeks. “I’m a mess now!”

“And you’re so hammered, too. That’s probably not helping, is it?” He dabs his jacket sleeve under Betty’s dripping nose. “Come on, sniffles. It’s alright. Let it out.”

He wraps an arm around Betty’s waist, slowly propelling her forward as she weeps into his shoulder. He shrugs and mouths, “Holidays,” to whispering onlookers, tells the attendants that Betty is just fine when they ask if she needs first aid or an ambulance, and that yes, they signed the liability waivers, and says to Betty, “Remember, you gotta glide,” when she stumbles. The latter is a mistake. It sets her off again, he presumes because it reminds her of skating, which reminds her of the story, so he starts on another round of “shh’s” and “it’s okay’s.”

“This drunk crying thing’s been happening a lot more recently,” he says when Betty’s tears subside.

“I know. I think it may be replacing my singing and inappropriate undressing.”

“That’s a bummer.”

“But I did feel a sudden urge to knock those kids out of the way and take over when we passed that karaoke window display yesterday, so maybe not.”

“Still. This could be a sign of your maturation. You’re becoming a nuanced drunk.” He squeezes her waist. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you, too,” she says through a sniffle. “Can you do lifts and jumps?”

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

“Even if I am, I will never own up to it, so it may as well be a no.”

“You look good.”

“I always look good.”

“You look good skating, I mean. You look sexy.”

Jughead smiles. “You look good, too. You’re always sexy to me.”

“Should we do something about this? Join an intramural ice hockey team? Or look into couples ice dancing?”’

“Oh, Betts,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Absolutely not.”

It’s Hal and Alice’s turn to do last minute shopping after skating, so he and Betty head home. Jughead is extremely excited for what’s to come. Betty has been very touchy and making eyes at him since he showed some kid how to do a power turn on the ice, so when he pushes open the door to the apartment, humming in pleasure as Betty nips lightly at his neck, he’s caught especially off-guard by what greets him. He checks the number on the door, but no, this place that looks like it’s hosted an elvish decorating spree inspired by the fond memories of a particularly good acid trip is really theirs.

Everything clashes. There are red and yellow poinsettias littered throughout, vying for dominance, and a massive Douglas fir by the windows that eats up half the living room. Precisely half the monstrosity is covered with colored lights and various sports and car ornaments, and the other, with yellow string lights and round red, green, and gold ornaments. The top is unadorned, which is fine, it’s sort of crunched over in a sad way and losing its battle with the ceiling, but a star and an angel sit near the pinnacle on either side. Framing one window is a green holly garland. A wreath hangs off it on a red ribbon. Bordering the second window are strands of silver tinsel. Some very poorly crafted paper snowflakes are taped to the glass.

Worst of all are the scents. Plugged into one of the wall outlets is a plastic Santa figurine covering what looks like a mini perfume bottle. Across on the entertainment unit, a bulbous aromatherapy diffuser shoots out a stream of mist. He smells cloying vanilla, which he thinks is supposed to be an approximation of a Christmas confection, patchouli, and leftover hints of curry and strawberry from breakfast. It makes him think of toothpaste on a curried strawberry sugar cookie, which has him swallowing hard and growing clammy. He tries taking slow, deep breaths, but that just makes everything worse.

"I feel sick," Jughead says eventually.

"Me too."

"No, I actually feel sick. The clashing scents are activating my gag reflex."

"Oh. Shoot.” Betty looks around. “Well, go to the bedroom. I'll unplug everything and open the windows."

He hurries to the bedroom with their bags, and though it’s miraculously unscented, it is far from undecorated. Pinned onto the wall above the headboard like some sort of festive blessing are a couple sprigs of mistletoe and four stockings. There’s one with a _B_ on it, one with an _F_ , and two smaller ones—one pink, and one blue. A red plaid blanket covers the pile of semi-dirty clothes. A single ornament bearing the word _Joy!_ in sparkly cursive letters sits atop it _._

A creaking noise comes from Caramel's cat condo. At first he thinks it's the sound of the thing about to collapse, which will be the biggest I-told-you-so ever if it does—he's said time and again, that thing is just not designed to support a cat of Caramel's size, she’ll definitely bring down the house one day and then they’ll have to call the fire department and get the jaws of life to free her—but no, Caramel simply had to have it because god forbid tubby not have her own sense of individualism or autonomy or whatever. But when Jughead peers into the little apartment Caramel has stuffed herself into, he realizes the labored sound is coming from the giant feline herself.

"Oh shit, Chunky, what'd they do to you?" he says, tugging Caramel free from the space. He removes the elf hat from the cat’s head that’s giving her a prominent triple chin, bats away her paws as she tries to swipe at him, then wrestles her out of the Santa sweater that's practically glued to her large frame. “That’s better, right?” he says as her breathing normalizes. “You remember who helped you out of this mess the next time you try to suffocate me while I'm sleeping.” Caramel simply wedges herself back into her apartment without so much as a look of thanks. Ungrateful monster.

He’s on the bed, tugging the pink and blue stockings free from the wall when he hears Betty’s footsteps approaching the bedroom. “Jug?” he hears her calling, “Juggie, are you okay?”

Dashing around the room like a maniac, he shoves Caramel’s identity crisis, the _Joy!_ ornament, the tiny stockings, and the green ribbon he’d bought for Betty into his sock drawer. Just as the door opens, he tugs the plaid blanket off the clothes and drapes it over the foot of the bed.

“Hey,” Betty says. “Feeling any better?”

“Much. Sorry, it was just a little overwhelming. You have a stronger stomach for this stuff than I do, I suppose.”

“Just a less sensitive gag reflex.”

He winks at her. “Lucky me.”

Betty smiles in return and he knows that she’d given him that as a softball to check that he’s really feeling better. “I’m going to get started on the cookies for dessert tomorrow. I figured it might help with the smell.”

“Cool, I’ll be right there.”

He watches as Betty glances around the room. “You know, it’s not too bad in here, actually,” she says. “That blanket’s pretty.”

“Isn’t it?” Jughead replies, quickly turning Betty towards the kitchen when he spies some decorations he hadn’t noticed before: a nativity scene, with a metal rattle in lieu of the baby Jesus, atop his suitcase he’s yet to unpack.

Dinner is paella. Alice explains that the recipe is courtesy of her Spanish conquistador, Javier, and Jughead hopes that there’s no explanation in regards to what it was Javier conquered. Hal stares at his plate, red-faced. Betty just drinks. Jughead considers this a very pleasant meal, possibly his favorite with these people so far.

In the midst of a verbal tussle over what the right way is to place cutlery in the dishwasher basket, up or down, someone suggests watching a movie. Someone else mentions Polly again, so after the knives have been placed handle-side up, and the spoons and forks handle-side down, Jughead sets up _It’s a Wonderful Life_ on the TV while Betty places a FaceTime call. Alice and Hal edge each other out for more space on the screen, Polly says, “Oh, how _fun,_ I wish I could be there!,” and Jughead is completely distracted from remembering what streaming service the movie’s on.

“Here, I’ll do it,” Betty says eventually. “Polly, talk to Jug for a bit.”

"Hey Polly, Merry Christmas," he greets. Polly waves at him with a smile and what looks to be a Starbucks cup in hand. “Actually, is it Christmas where you’re at?”

“Yeah, Christmas morning.”

“And where is where you’re at, incidentally?”

“Sapporo!”

“Right, right. That’s exactly what we thought. I bet it’s a good time.”

“Oh my God, it's amazing,” Polly says. “There's so much culture here. I just had brunch at Tony Roma's.”

“Oh man, love that place.” He swiftly moves his foot out of the way as Betty goes to stomp on his toes. “Their ribs are excellent.”

“I know, right? You and Betty should totally visit here when you get the chance.”

“I was thinking Fiji first if I ever make it that way past the date line, but glad it's a good time. I bet the beer's great.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know, I don't do gluten.”

“You and I don't have that in common, it seems. Hey, you should check out the Hard Rock Café while you’re there. I think you'll like it. I hear they're slightly different in every city. Anyway, here's Betty back. I think she’s found the movie. Have fun.”

Betty sets her phone against a stack of books so Polly can watch too, before curling up against him. Everything is going swell, it’s peaceful and calm, George Bailey has rescued Harry, and is about to dance with Mary. Jughead remembers Betty telling him a story once, back when they’d first met, about how this movie could get even her lousy family to pipe down. But right as _Buffalo Gals_ starts playing, George says to Freddie, “Oh, why don’t you stop annoying people,” Alice quips, “Now, there’s some good advice for you, Hal!,” and then it’s chaos.

Polly screeches on the phone, telling her parents to be quiet, she can’t hear, Hal yells that if anyone is annoying, it’s Alice and her stories about her European sexcapades, and Alice screams that Hal is just jealous she’s so desirable while he apparently can’t keep any of his wives happy because of his sexual repression. By the time George finds out his father has had a stroke, Betty simply sighs and disappears into the kitchen.

During this fight, Alice and Hal unpack their many grievances about their wedding reception, and Jughead is so depressed that people can hold onto a grudge about filet mignon and vanilla cake for so long that he disappears into the kitchen, too. There, Betty is decorating the cookies she’d set out to cool earlier. He thought the plan was to have everyone decorate their own tomorrow, but he doesn’t question it. Instead, he stands behind her and watches as she stress-decorates. Her hair smells sweet and sharp, like brown sugar and ginger. Betty pipes straight, thin red lines of royal icing onto a snowman’s man’s scarf, before delicately feathering them with a needle-like tool.

“I thought you’d melted down candy canes or something,” he says. “That’s amazing.”

“Thanks.” Her voice is quiet, barely audible. “My mom doesn’t think it’s appropriate to have your guests prepare any part of their own meal, so I figured doing this now will be one less thing for her to complain about tomorrow.”

“Ah.”

“I’ve kind of had it with them.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m so sorry. Anything I can do?”

“Tell them to shut up?”

“I honestly would if I thought they’d listen to me.”

Betty leans back against him and exhales slowly. “Thank you for being here.”

“In our joyus, festive nest, with the lovely backing track of whether the steak was medium or medium rare some thirty-plus years ago?” He sees the knife edge of her smile. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Jughead watches as she decorates a few more cookies before asking if he can snag a couple of the gingerbread men. Betty shrugs and replies, “Sure,” so he props up a chopping board between them, breaking the barrier only to grab the piping bags and a two gumdrops Betty has been using as buttons. When he’s done, he lifts the board with a flourish.

“Behold the artistry,” he says. “Meet this year’s cookie Cooper.”

Betty leans forward to inspect the cookie. He smiles when he sees her smile. “Very interesting,” she says. “Context?”

“Glad you asked.” He rubs his hands together. “Let’s go top down, shall we? So—your cheeks are red from intense sun poisoning. You’ve forgotten sunblock and fallen asleep after one too many again. Your mouth is open because you’re upset and yelling about it. This is you on a tropical vacation, by the way. You’re somewhere far, far away from here. Your hair is giant and frizzy because of the humidity, and this big pink welt on your leg? Jellyfish sting.”

“Ouch,” Betty says. “Are the gumdrops my boobs?”

“Yeah. I know, I know, they’re a little small proportionally speaking, but working with limited resources here.”

“I only have tiny bottoms on. Where’s my tiny top?”

“Well, this is the thing. You’ve kind of caught Fiji Betts here in media res. See, she’s preparing to go skinny dipping, so she’s already ditched it.”

“I’m skinny dipping by myself? What, did I just leave you here in the city to rot?”

He passes her an undecorated gingerbread man. “You tell me.”

Betty smiles and rises to the challenge. She draws a pair of ice skates even though Jughead argues that’s thematically inconsistent, a tiny speedo, and a very big smile onto the cookie man. To top it off, there’s a straw hat with many pieces of tropical fruit on the brim.

“You lost your beanie on a glass bottom boat tour. You got spooked when some guppy fish were getting a little too sociable,” Betty explains. “It was slim pickings at the hotel’s lost and found, so it was either this or a fedora from the Margaritaville Caribbean collection.”

“Well, this one comes with built-in snacks, so naturally. Hey, put some mango on there, too, I love that stuff.”

Betty complies, laughing a little as she pipes on the fruit with yellow frosting. “They look happy,” she says as she places her cookie beside his.

“They look demented,” he replies. “Are you?”

“Demented? My parents haven’t gotten to me that badly yet.”

“Happy, I mean. Obviously not right now with it’s a fantastically shitty life happening in our living room, but in general?”

“Juggie.” She turns to face him. “In general, I am the happiest.”

Betty rises on her tiptoes and presses her lips to his. It’s a sweet kiss, very soft. It sets his senses alight anyway. In his moments of overthinking, he wonders sometimes if it’s strange that kissing this woman he’s kissed thousands of times before still makes him feel so wild. He wonders if other people who’ve been with their respective better halves for as long as he’s been with Betty feel similarly. He wonders what it all means, before eventually concluding that it probably just means he loves her a lot.

It takes him a moment to realize it, but it’s quiet in the living room now, save for George Bailey’s lazy drawl. Jughead brings his index finger to his ear. Betty raises her eyebrows, but it’s really happened, a through and through Christmas miracle—the Coopers have finally tired themselves out, and are now zonked out on either end of the couch.

“C’mon,” Betty whispers, taking his hand.

In their bedroom, Betty is determined and bold. She skillfully works his clothes off him while murmuring how much she wants him. She hooks her fingers in his belt loops and pulls him towards the bed, she pushes him onto it and sets herself across him. Still, Jughead frowns. He’s into it all, into her, but everything also feels a little off.

“Hey,” he says, pulling at her arm when she begins working her way down his body, “hey, we don’t have to do this right now.”

Betty’s eyes narrow. “I know that.”

“We can just sleep.”

“I know that.”

“Let’s just sleep.”

“Is that what you want?” she says. There’s an edge to her voice.

“Betty.”

“You clearly want to do this.”

“Yeah, but do you?” He pushes some hair out of her face and tucks it behind her ear. “It’s okay,” he says quietly. “It’s been a long day.”

Betty glares at him, and for a few moments, he thinks she’s about to yell, that there’s going to be a fight. But then her shoulders sag, she rolls off him, and sighs deeply as she stares at the ceiling. “I’m sorry I’m not in the mood,” she says. Her left hand is fisted against her forehead. “I’m sorry about everything.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s fine. Betty, it’s completely fine.” He nudges his arm under her shoulders and turns her to him. “None of this was your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“You’re too good to me.”

She’s shaking in his arms after that, crying fat tears that dampen his skin, apologizing to him in a way that absolutely shatters his heart. He assumes this is all a result of the day catching up with her, and though he isn’t surprised, he is incredibly angry on her behalf that it’s ending like this. He thinks, not for the first time, that he’d kick her parents out and dump their stuff out the window for them to collect from the street if he could.

Jughead whispers anything he can think of to calm her. He doesn’t tell her it’s okay, because it isn’t, and he doesn’t promise that tomorrow will be better, because he isn’t sure it will be. Instead, he strokes her hair and tells her what he knows—that the situation sucks, big time, but she can get through it because she’s the most capable person he knows, that he’ll always try to make it work with her, not because she’s difficult to love, but because this stuff simply takes work to survive. He tells her he loves her, how much he loves her, over and over again, until she falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, it's not a trick of the eye, the chapter count has dropped from 4 to 3; I realized I could get what I thought was two chapters down into one. 
> 
> Thanks all for reading, and Happy New Year! Wishing you lots of health and happiness in 2021.


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